Ghosts
by ReverendKilljoy
Summary: Wilson broods and House taunts, in a tribute to Hamlet and oncology. For Leslie and Louis.


"Damn."

Wilson looked at the X-Ray one more time, though it did not tell him any more than the lab results had, or the CT scan. Despite all the advances in diagnostic imaging, seeing the shadow on the X-Ray, the white cloud on the blue-black film, still seemed somehow definitive to him. The telltale ghost, lurking in the patient's head.

He supposed his would be the last generation to go to the films first, and last. The younger doctors all wanted to see images on a CRT, or one of the new HD flat panels. There was nothing wrong with that. Wilson reached out to trace the little white cloud, for all the world like a weather man on TV showing light showers around Princeton.

Without bothering to turn on the lights, he sat, leaning awkwardly back onto the edge of his desk. The films cast odd shadows across the room, and he brooded for a moment over the unreality of it, so much like moonlight.

"Sitting in the dark again, Wilson?" House's voice slid into the room a moment before he did, all stubble and bags under his eyes and that amazing, mobile mouth that could quirk into any one of 200 different scowls. "If you're also compulsively reading 'Catcher in the Rye,' just warn me before you go all Mark David Chapman. I want to make sure Cuddy isn't taking a sick day."

"You're really an insufferable bastard, you know that?"

"Yes, but like the swallows to Capistrano, you return again and again. I have hidden depths, makes me vastly appealing." House eyed the spot where Wilson was slouching. That was House's usual slouching spot. He tried to lean on the door frame, but that left his cane dangling.

"Come on, let you buy me lunch, you'll feel better." House turned, assuming consent. That usually worked with Wilson, but not today.

"You mean you'll buy me lunch." Wilson thought about what he'd just said. "Never mind, Greg. I see you spoke clearly the tirst fime."

House grinned boyishly at being caught.

"Spoonerisms? Why Wilson, sow hilly of you." Reversing the first sounds of words, attributed to the late Reverend Spooner, was often a sign of fatigue. "Reminds me, ever hear the great Spoonerism for 'A Tale of Two Cities'?"

"Not today, House. Close the door on your way out." Wilson continued to slouch, idly running the edge of his thumb over his brow, just above his eye. His gaze wandered restlessly over the film on the view plate.

"Well aren't you the party pooper." House snatched the X-Ray off the glass and peered at it. "Huh. I can see why you're down. Nasty." House's mouth twitched, a tic he showed sometimes when changing gears from truly flippant to just acting flippant to cover his humanity.

"Nothing like an inoperable brain tumor to put the kibosh on a morning of pointless revelry." He held the films out towards Wilson. "Let's go, I don't want to have to fight for a decent table."

"Not today, House," Wilson repeated. He looked at the films in Greg's hand but made no move to take them. "Just leave me alone for a while, okay?"

House's expression grew, if anything, even more sour.

"Who has a case of the Melancholy Dane?" House held the film of the skull up and struck a pose, reciting the paraphrased lines of the Bard. "Alas, poor Patient. I knew him, Wilson, a man of infinite jest..."

Wilson scowled.

"Your English accent sucks," Wilson snapped, and angrily thrust out his hand, shaking slightly. He said more cooly, "Give me that."

House made to hold it up over his head like a child playing 'Keep-away." He backed up a step but had to lower the film when he planted his cane.

Wilson snatched the film away. House put his hands on his hips, cane dangling akimbo, and demanded, "What's the problem, Wilson? Aren't you the one always telling Cameron to face the bad news, to move on after a tough diagnosis? What's the big deal with this joker? So, his chances suck. The films don't exactly leave a lot of room for interpretation."

Wilson put the X-Rays carefully onto his desk, and turned off the viewer light. In the sudden darkness, House was backlit from the doorway. Wilson was a ghost, a white lab coat and a mop of dark hair in the gloom.

"Mey're thine," he whispered, unable to frame the words, hands trembling slightly as he lowered himself wearily into his chair. The darkness swallowed him, and the silence.

-fin-


End file.
